Hot Chips: a Bill and Clara fic
by Heartstart
Summary: After being dumped by Heather, Bill is back on Earth and looking for a job. There's a "Help Wanted" sign in the window of a new diner, and Bill soon finds herself being simultaneously infuriated by, and attracted to, her new boss - a mysterious young woman who calls herself Ozzy...
1. Chapter 1

"Sorry Bill. I can't give you your job back."

Bill jammed her fists in the pockets of her skinny jeans, and stared in frustration at her boss. Or rather, her former boss.

"C'mon, Stu. I only missed a few shifts."

"Three weeks, Bill! You missed three weeks' worth of shifts. No word from you – nothing. I tried calling your house. Your mum had no idea where you were." Stu ripped open a bag of lettuce and tipped it into the metal container. "Now you turn up here, without any explanation at all, expecting your job to be waiting for you."

"Yeah, I know. And I'm sorry, ok? I just had some… stuff that I needed to deal with." Like hanging out for ten years down the backside of a spaceship, getting turned into a stompy tin man, and travelling around the universe with my ex-girlfriend who happens to be an alien. Oh, and saying goodbye to my best friend. Who also happens to be an alien.

Stu started dicing onions in a manner that reminded Bill uncomfortably of the Cyberman conversion process. The smell of grease and charred burger patties wafted through the kitchen. In the background came the sounds of the students lining up in the cafeteria, chatting and laughing, ready for their lunch.

"That's not good enough, Bill. I need someone I can rely on. And besides, we've given your job to Nigel."

From the chip station, Nigel grinned, revealing a mouth full of braces, and waved at her nervously. Bill raised her hand unenthusiastically in response.

"I'm sorry, Bill. You need to leave now. You don't work here anymore."

Bill left, trudging glumly along the corridors of St Luke's University. Now what was she going to do?

Heather had turned out to be as shallow as the puddle from which she'd emerged. Six weeks of 'showing each other the universe' and she'd ditched Bill for some green-skinned alien from the planet Vertalia. "Sorry Bill, but it's just not working between us." Yeah, right. She'd turned Bill back into a human, and dropped her back on Earth (acting like it was some kind of big favour!). Bill had discovered that only three weeks had passed on Earth since the Doctor had talked her into taking that final trip with Missy, Nardole, and himself. Her foster mother, Moira, had barely noticed she'd been gone ("Were you binge-watching 'Game of Thrones' with Shireen again?") But her absence had not escaped Stu's attention. Now here she was, broke and jobless.

Bill stopped to check a bulletin board. It was covered with papers: ads for second hand textbooks, flyers for the university frisbee club, a poster for a missing dog. No jobs though. She sighed and moved on… stopping suddenly when she realized she was outside the Doctor's old office. She held her breath and tried the door.

Incredibly, it was unlocked. She stepped inside, remembering all the times she'd entered. Those mad tutorials. The Doctor, striding about. Tossing books at her. Strumming on his guitar. Nardole fussing over them both with cups of tea.

They'd cleared everything out. All that remained was the solid mahogany desk. She wondered what had happened to his things: his feathered pens, his paintings, his globes and funny knick-knacks. In the corner of the room, stood the imprint of where the Tardis had been. A perfect square in the dust.

Bill realized there were tears in her eyes. It had been so wonderful. Mostly. Some times had been downright bloody scary. But god, she missed the Doctor so much. He was alive – she knew it; could feel it – but he wasn't coming back to St Luke's. There was nothing left for her here.

She left the university, walking aimlessly for several blocks until she came to a side street. Tucked between two buildings (which appeared to house a watchmaker and a dry cleaners, respectively) was an American style diner. And there was a sign in the window. _Help Wanted_.

Bill paused. "Why not?" she muttered, and pushed the door open. Her eyebrows shot to her hairline.

"Woah, get a load of this place!"

The diner was decked out to the nines. Red leather booths, black and white floor tiles, a picture of Elvis covering a door down the back, and – rather incongruously – a butterfly net in the corner.

"Can I help you?" a rather bossy voice said.

Bill turned. There, behind the counter, stood a young woman. Bill's stomach flipped. She was kind of cute. Face a bit wide, but amazing brown eyes, and a pert nose. A waitress, no doubt.

"Oh. Hi. Saw the job in the window. Is there a manager here I can speak with?"

"I am the manager," said the young woman, briskly.

"Um, right. I guess I expected someone…" Bill wasn't quite sure how to end that sentence, and the young woman now had one eyebrow raised. "…taller?" Bill finished, hopefully.

Now the woman – who was at least half a head shorter than Bill – raised both eyebrows. "I didn't realise there was a height requirement to run a restaurant."

Bill felt herself blushing. "Right. Sorry."

"Let's get to business, shall we? I'm looking for a kitchenhand. Someone to make coffee, flip burgers, fry eggs, cook chips-"

"I can do that!" interrupted Bill. "I cooked chips loads of times back at St Luke's, and everyone loved them. I am literally the Chip Queen." In fact, she had once been crowned Chip Queen, when the Doctor had taken her to that planet with the hungry, potato loving aliens. But obviously she couldn't say that. Not without sounding insane.

"Um, great," said the young woman. "It's shiftwork, which includes evenings and weekends. There might also be some waitressing duties, and at the end of each shift, I'll expect you to clean the-"

"Is this a pop-up?" asked Bill, as the question suddenly occurred to her.

"Pardon me?"

"It's just that… I've never seen this diner here before. It's almost like it sprang up overnight."

The young woman paused. "I suppose in a way it did," she said. "And I'm stuck… that is… I'm going to be here for the indefinite future, and I need someone to help me out. So, can I take it you're interested?"

"Yeah!" said Bill. The job actually sounded like a drag, but hey, at least it was money and she had to start somewhere.

The young woman tucked a lock of brown hair behind her ear, and pulled a notepad and pen towards her. "Take a seat," she said, pointing at one of the red stools lined up along the counter. "I'll get some details. "What's your name?"

"Bill. Bill Potts."

The young woman wrote it down. "Bill… Potts… You can call me Ozzy."

Bill snorted, before she could stop herself. "What kind of a name is Ozzy? You don't sound Australian."

Ozzy looked up and gave her a death glare that instantly quelled Bill's amusement. "I'm not. I'm from Blackpool originally. Ozzy is… let's just say it's based on my last name, and it's what you will be calling me."

Bill nodded feebly, not sure what to say.

"Address? Date of birth? National Insurance number?"

Bill told her.

"Now, as to salary, I'm offering eight pounds fifty an hour. No penalty rates, I'm afraid. And this is casual work, so no benefits. Apart from working with me, of course."

Gee, thought Bill. Not only was this woman bossy, but she also had an ego on her the size of the planet Hugiferous (which, she recalled the Doctor telling her, was five thousand times the size of Jupiter). Should she accept this job? Then something else occurred to her.

"Do you always keep a butterfly net in here?"

Ozzy put down her pen and gazed at Bill steadily. "Do you always blurt out questions at random?"

"Um. Sometimes," admitted Bill.

Ozzy leaned forward. "I need someone who'll work hard, and focus on the job. Are you capable of that?"

"Yeah," said Bill, feeling rather cowed.

"You mentioned working at St Luke's. Why did you leave?"

Uh oh. "I was fired."

"Oh. Why was that?"

Bill traced the stool's rung with the toe of her sneaker. "I missed a few shifts, cos I was travelling. Took me a bit longer than expected to get back home."

Ozzy drew back. "Yeah. I would have probably fired you too. I need someone who's reliable and responsible. Perhaps you don't fit the bill. No pun intended."

Bill suddenly felt angry. Who did this girl think she was? This stupid, jumped-up manager judging Bill like this? She had no idea of what Bill had been through! Had Ozzy ever faced danger? Had Ozzy ever been trapped? Had Ozzy ever seen people die in front of her? Had Ozzy ever dealt with someone as dangerously loopy as Missy? Had Ozzy ever had her heart broken at saying goodbye to a beloved best friend, like the Doctor?

Bill jumped down from the stool, her temper rising.

"You know what? Stick your job. You've got no idea who I am, or what my circumstances are. Yeah, I went travelling and missed some work. But I don't bloody regret it for a moment. The things I saw, and the things I did… they were amazing. And now, I'm back here, and I'm trying to make the best of it. I'm trying to live normally again, just like every human being out there."

At this, a strange look came over Ozzy's face.

"And the friends I was travelling with," continued Bill, "They're gone, and I'll probably never see them again. And I miss them so much." Especially the Doctor, she thought. "And I'm trying to live with that."

Ozzy kept looking at her with that same, strange expression.

"I am hard-working, and I am reliable. And my travelling days are done. Not that you probably care."

With that, Bill headed for the door, but Ozzy's voice stopped her.

"Nine o'clock."

Bill turned. "What?"

"Nine o'clock, tomorrow morning. That's when you start your first shift." For the first time, Ozzy smiled. To Bill's astonishment, it was a lively, and rather lovely, smile. As she was marveling at it, Ozzy added "Don't be late."

Don't be late. Bill glowered as she walked home through the Bristol streets. She'd scored the job, but she suspected working with Ozzy would be bloody irritating. But the memory of Ozzy's deep brown eyes, and that smile came back her. Irritating perhaps… but interesting. Very interesting.


	2. Chapter 2

"One centimetre, Bill! You peel the potatoes, then slice them one centimetre thick. Those are closer to one and a half."

By the end of her first week at the diner, Bill had come to learn three things about her new boss.

Firstly, Ozzy was a complete control freak. Eggs had to be scrambled for two minutes exactly, then the mixture folded three times. Sauces had to be displayed symmetrically on the counter, logos facing outward. Malted milkshakes had to have three tablespoons of malt to every half cup of milk. And now she was nagging Bill about chips!

Bill was getting sick of it.

"I know what to do," she snapped at Ozzy. "I've only ever cooked chips, like, a million times in my life!"

"Are you using the rapeseed oil like I showed you, or vegetable oil?"

"Um…" said Bill, trying to shove the vegetable oil behind the stack of unpeeled potatoes. But Ozzy's gimlet eyes noticed.

"Honestly, Bill! Rapeseed oil for the chips and vegetable oil for frying the patties. Is it really that hard? I need to rely on you. I have other things to be getting on with."

"Oh yeah?" Bill asked quickly. "What things?"

"That is absolutely none of your business."

Secondly, Ozzy was mysterious. When she wasn't riding Bill's back, she was holed up in the back room of the diner for hours, door closed, doing – well, Bill had no idea. But often, Bill heard strange sounds coming from inside. Beeps and thumps and hammering. One time, it almost sounded like a small explosion. Several times she'd seen Ozzy go in and out with odd objects. The butterfly net. A cat carrier. A bucket of water.

On her first day, a Very Important Question had occurred to Bill. It was after the lunchtime rush, and the diner was empty of customers, so she'd walked down the back of the diner to seek out Ozzy. The door was closed, but she tugged on the handle.

It opened a crack, giving her a fleeting impression of a white, cavernous space. "Hey, Ozzy-" she'd begun. But in the next instant, Ozzy had flung herself against the door, shutting it firmly from her side. "Do not come in here!"

'But I just wanted to ask-"

"Go back to the kitchen and stay there! I'll be out in a sec."

"Um. Ok." Bill walked away. Now what was Ozzy's problem?

In a moment, Ozzy had appeared, slightly calmer. "That room is my private space. You must never enter it."

"Ok," said Bill, resisting the urge to add "Whatever."

"What did you want to ask me?"

"Well… I was wondering… does this diner have a name?'

"What!"

Bill had never learned whether the diner had a name (and if so, what that name was). She'd tried not to think about the back room. But if she had to be totally honest, she was as curious as hell. And Ozzy sure wasn't giving anything away.

Now, she picked up the knife again and started chopping the potatoes, trying to ignore her hovering boss.

"You're still not doing it right, Bill! Here, let me show you."

Ozzy grabbed the knife, just as Bill – glaring at her – pulled it back. The blade flashed in the late morning sunlight, before cutting deep into Ozzy's palm, right across the fleshy part below her thumb.

"Oh god!" exclaimed Bill, backing away. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll go and get… first aid kit."

She ducked down the other end of the counter, to where they kept the first aid kit. "Good one, Bill," she muttered to herself. "Just slice your boss's hand open, why don't you?" Would Ozzy fire her for this? She dug out a gauze pad and sterile bandage, and returned to Ozzy (who was rather efficiently washing the wound under the sink).

"Thanks," said Ozzy, turning off the tap. "I'll just take those and-"

Bill ignored her. She grasped Ozzy's wrist, and with her other hand, applied the pad directly to the cut.

Thirdly, Ozzy was not fanciable. Bill was totally, definitely, not attracted to her at all. No way. Especially not to the way Ozzy's apron clinched so nicely around her slim waist. Or to the dimples at the corners of her cheeks. Or to the smooth skin of her wrist, which Bill was holding. Although there was something weird that Bill couldn't quite put her finger on. Even though she literally did have her finger on it.

There were also marks on Ozzy's forearm. Burn marks, pink and shiny. Ozzy followed Bill's gaze. "Hot oil, from the frypan," she said quickly.

"Oh, ok," replied Bill, although she couldn't remember seeing Ozzy go anywhere near the stove since she'd started working at the diner.

"Nothing to worry about. I'm a fast healer."

It did look like the flow of blood had been staunched. Bill wrapped the bandage around and around Ozzy's hand, pinning the end neatly.

"Thanks," said Ozzy. "You actually did a good job. Where did you learn how to bandage wounds?"

In the Tardis, thought Bill. The nature of travelling with the Doctor meant you were bound to get the odd sting, bite, or electric shock. Early on, Nardole had taught her some basic first aid skills.

"From a friend," she said.

Ozzy gingerly flexed her bandaged hand. "I can get a bit reckless sometimes. Habit I'm trying to break. It's going to kill me one day"

"Clearly," said Bill.

Ozzy shot her a quick smile, and Bill grinned awkwardly back.

"So," said Ozzy, after a pause. "You ok to work Sunday?"

"Sunday? Sure."

"I mean, it is Mother's Day, so unless you have plans with your mum..."

"My mum's dead," said Bill quietly. And her plans with Moira basically consisted of avoiding her, wherever possible.

"Oh god," said Ozzy, looking more distressed than Bill had ever seen her. "Sorry, I didn't-"

"It's ok," said Bill quickly. "She died when I was a baby." She thought of her photos of her mum, tucked under her pillow at home; those amazing photos the Doctor had travelled back in time to take.

"And your dad?"

"Not in the picture," said Bill. "Left Mum before I was born." She'd never got around to asking the Doctor to track him down.

"Did you grow up in a children's home?"

"Foster parents. Latest one is called Moira."

"What's she like?"

"Ok. Sometimes. Bit oblivious."

"My mum's dead too," said Ozzy.

"Oh." Now it was Bill's turn to feel upset. "When did-"

"When I was a teenager."

"That's rough."

"Yeah."

"So how about your dad?"

"He's still alive," said Ozzy. "But er… I don't really talk to him these days. Circumstances and all that."

"But he's your dad, right? You know how to get in touch with him?"

"Yes, but-"

"You know what?" said Bill, "You should call your dad. Right now."

"Really not a good idea."

"Just pick up the phone and tell him hello. I'll even dial for you!"

"Believe me, he'd get the shock of his life if I did that," said Ozzy firmly. "Literally, it'd be like hearing a voice from beyond the grave. Now come on. After you finished chopping those potatoes, I'll show you how to make a soufflé."

"Soufflé?" asked Bill. "What sort of a diner sells souffles?"

"This one does," says Ozzy, smiling.

It was after her shift, sprawled out on her bed back home, sifting through the photographs of her mum, when Bill finally worked out what had been bugging her. When she'd been holding Ozzy's wrist, the skin had felt warm and alive, and yet… She threw the photos onto the duvet and frowned.

"I couldn't feel a pulse."


	3. Chapter 3

"So, Ozzy. What… um… do you like to do when you're not working?"

"This and that," said Ozzy vaguely, not looking up from the stack of napkins she was neatening.

Bill rolled her eyes and went on slicing potatoes. She was so curious to find out more about Ozzy. Who was she? What did she get up to in that back room? And did she have a boyfriend – or a girlfriend? Ozzy was so flipping cagey though – not giving anything away.

The door jingled, and Bill's heart skipped a beat. Entering the diner was a tall man with fluffy grey hair. He wore dark hooded jumper. Oh god! It was the Doctor! He'd come back for her. She could practically hear the words he was about to speak: "Bill! Found you at last! Knew you'd be ok. The Tardis is outside – where do you want to go?"

Then the man stepped closer, into the light, and Bill saw that his nose was too small, and his eyes were too dark. And when he sat at the counter and ordered a coffee, it was not with the Doctor's rich Scottish burr, but a rather high pitched West Country accent.

Stupid bloody idiot. Of course it wasn't the Doctor. Just some random guy with a superficial resemblance.

She turned away to make the coffee, fists clenched in disappointment… and happened to glance at Ozzy.

Ok, that was weird.

Ozzy was staring at the man with a mingled look of intense longing and disappointment. It was like a reflection of Bill's own feelings, only magnified.

"Ozzy? You ok?"

"What? Yeah. Sure." Ozzy shook her head, and hurried down the other end of the counter, still darting glances at the man.

Great. Looked like Ozzy was as straight as an arrow, with Daddy Issues to boot. Bill couldn't think of any other explanation.

She'd just served the Not-Doctor bloke his coffee, when the bill jingled again. A young guy approached the counter and called her over.

"Excuse me! Hey. Sorry to bother you. But I was wondering if you'd seen this dog?"

Bill looked at the man. His eyes were as brown and mournful as those of the Basset hound in the photo he was holding.

"No, I'm sorry."

The young man's expression turned glummer. "He's been missing for three days. I live two streets over, and thought perhaps someone around here had seen him. At first I thought Forty-Nine had run away, but then-"

"Wait," said Bill. "Your dog's name is Forty-Nine?"

"Yeah."

"Who calls their dog 'Forty-Nine'"?

"He was a rescue dog," explained the young man. "Got him from the pound. They told me he was seven years old. Well, when you think of one human year being seven dog years, he was forty-nine in dog years the day we met."

"Hence the name," said Bill, drily.

"Can you put this in your window?" The young man pushed across the counter a poster, with the word "Missing" across the top. Below was the photo of Forty-Nine, with an address and telephone number beneath.

Bill hesitated. She didn't see it as a problem, but who knew whether control-freak Ozzy would want her precious windows being sullied by posters?

"Let me check with my boss," she said.

Ozzy was over at the booths, topping up the salt shakers. "Hey," said Bill. "This bloke wants to put a poster in the window. That ok?"

"Is he advertising something?"

"No, he's lost his dog, and-"

Ozzy's head snapped up. "Lost his dog? Which one is he?"

Bill pointed. "That one. Young guy. Red hair."

To her astonishment, Ozzy bustled over to the young man, smiling sympathetically. "Hi there! I hear you've lost your dog. So sorry to hear that."

The young man blinked and smiled back, quite clearly taken with this attractive young waitress who was showing so much interest. Bill's stomach knotted. He wasn't bad looking himself. She might have even fancied him herself if she was straight. Did Ozzy fancy him?

"Um, yeah. My dog. Went missing three days ago."

"You know what?" said Ozzy. "I would like to hear all about your dog." She turned to Bill, and unexpectedly reached up and put her hands on Bill's shoulders.

"Bill, I am going to take a break and have a chat with-" she nodded at the young man.

"Jason."

"With Jason. Can you hold down the shop while I do that?"

"But," said Bill (acutely aware of Ozzy's hands resting on her shoulders) "You never take a break to socialize with customers."

"I'm making an exception this time," said Ozzy, dropping her hands back down to her sides.

Jason beamed.

"So make us two coffees, please." To Jason: "Milk and sugar?"

He nodded.

"With milk and sugar," Ozzy told Bill. "Don't forget, coffee first, sugar next, milk last. Stir six times, clockwise." She led Jason to a booth, saying "When exactly did you see your dog last?"

Bill splashed coffee into two mugs, feeling irrationally jealous. What was so great about Jason anyway? Was Ozzy an animal lover? Did she get sucked in by a sad dog story? She dumped in the sugar and poured the milk. Then – because she was feeling rebellious – she stirred both coffees _ten_ times. Anti-clockwise. See how you like that, Ozzy.

She brought the drinks over to their booth (both were too absorbed in each other to utter more then a perfunctory "thanks"), then hovered nearby, pretending to wipe down tables, whilst listening in on their conversation.

She had to admit, Ozzy was kind of a lousy date. Jason kept on trying to ask her 'getting to know you' type questions ("Have you been working here long?", "Have you always lived in Bristol?" "Why do they call you Ozzy?"). Ozzy however, absently stroking the burns on her forearms, countered his questions with ones of her own… all about Forty-Nine. ("How old did you say he was?" "Do you think someone has taken him?" "Did you notice anything strange the day he went missing? Say – any random spot fires in the neighbourhood?")

Spot fires in the neighbourhood? What was that all about? Bill leaned in closer, but to her annoyance, a group of teenagers burst through the door, satchels slung over their shoulders, laughing and jostling. The after school crowd. She sighed, and headed back to the counter.

The kids were rowdy, and there were chips to cook and milkshakes to froth. Bill tried in vain to sneak looks at Ozzy and Jason (did she just touch his arm? What did that smile mean?). One of the lads stuck on 'All Shook Up' on the jukebox, so she couldn't hear what they were saying, either. By the time she'd served all the orders, Jason had exited the diner, and Ozzy was wandering slowly back towards her, rolled up poster in hand.

"So," said Bill, wiping down the counter, and trying to sound casual. "Did you get his number?"

"Hmm? Yeah," said Ozzy, absently.

"Great," said Bill between gritted teeth. "He seemed really nice." She scrubbed hard at a spot of dried milk.

"That's five dogs in the last fortnight."

"Looked like you guys were really into each other."

"All missing from around this area."

"So I suppose you two will be going on a proper date, then?"

"All older dogs. No puppies."

"What?" said Bill, confused.

"What?" said Ozzy, also confused.

"Sorry," said Bill. "Wasn't paying attention. I was just saying… you and Jason…"

"Oh!" said Ozzy. "No way."

"But you said… you got his number."

"Yeah," Ozzy sounded evasive. "Just in case I need to ask him any more questions." She tapped the poster against the counter, thoughtfully. "Jane always used to say: 'time will explain', but sometimes you have to figure these things out for yourself."

"Jane?" asked Bill.

To her surprise, Ozzy actually blushed a little. "Just… someone special. From my past."

"Someone special? Like – were you together?"

The teenagers left, and the diner was empty. Ozzy rubbed her chin.

"Bill," she said. "I'm going to close up early today."

Another surprise. Ozzy never closed early. "Oh, ok. I'll start cleaning up then."

"Nah, leave it," said Ozzy."

"But-"

"I'll take care of it. Take the rest of the afternoon off! It's lovely outside."

Bill glanced out the window. It was drizzling. A wind whipped up leaves and litter in the street.

"Um, ok."

She shrugged into her jeans jacket. Ozzy had disappeared into the back room. Bill stepped into the street, thinking. Something was going on here. Something mysterious. The sort of thing that the Doctor would probably want to investigate. The Doctor had left Earth, but she, Bill Potts, remained. And she was going to check out whatever Ozzy was up to!

Time for a stake out.

As Bill slipped across the road, looking for a vantage point, one other thing crossed her mind. So there was a girl named Jane whom Ozzy had been fond of? She thrust her hands deep into her pockets, and grinned a little. That, at least, was promising.


	4. Chapter 4

"Are you going to buy that?"

Bill looked up from the magazine she was holding. Its title was 'Posh Poultry Monthly'. On the cover was a photo of a hen with a blue ribbon draped around its neck, and headlines such as: 'Exhibit Your Cream Legbars With Style!'; 'How to Deodorise Your Coops'; and 'Do You Need a Chicken Whisperer?'.

"Um… maybe," she told the man behind the counter.

"You've been standing there for twenty minutes reading it. Either buy it or move on. I'm not running a library here."

Bill in fact hadn't been reading the magazine. Rather, she'd grabbed it at random, using it as an excuse to stay inside the nice, dry newsagents while she scoped out the diner across the road. It beat hanging around in the rain outside. Just as well. Nearly half an hour, and no sign of Ozzy yet.

Now the man's attitude grated.

"Look, mate. I'm a customer. Why don't you show a bit of respect and-"

A flurry of moment outside caught her eye. Ozzy – now wearing a cardigan over a polka-dotted dress – stepped out of the diner. Bill watched as she opened an umbrella, and set off down the street.

"Uh oh. Gotta run." She dumped 'Post Poultry Monthly' back in the rack and hurried out the door.

Raindrops hit her face. She shivered a little, pulling her denim jacket tightly around her body. Ozzy didn't seem to have any idea she was being followed. Bill tailed her down to the main street, where Ozzy turned left, and walked for a further five blocks, past restaurants, cafes, and clothing boutiques.

Where the bloody heck was Ozzy going?

Ozzy crossed the road and headed down a laneway, Bill still following her at a distance. Then, abruptly, Ozzy stopped (Bill quickly ducked into the doorway of a nearby office building) and opened a low gate set into a hedge. Bill peered out. The gate led to a paved courtyard, behind which stood a square white building with green guttering. She watched as Ozzy pushed open the door and entered.

Cautiously, Bill crept out from behind the doorway, and approached the building. The sign above the door read: _Animal Shelter_.

What was Ozzy doing here? Bill hesitated for a split second, then legged it across the courtyard, and dropped down beneath one of the front windows. Thankfully, she was shielded from the street by the hedge. She raised her head as much as she dared, and peeked in the window.

Ozzy was smiling and talking to a middle-aged woman, who was holding a clipboard. Bill pressed her ear against the glass, but couldn't make out the conversation.

 _"Spaceboy! You're sleepy now!"_

Oh cripes. Her phone. Bowie's 'Hallo Spaceboy'. Bill had downloaded it for her ringtone the other week – the song had reminded her of the Doctor. Now she grabbed the phone from her pocket. Caller: Shireen. She stabbed at the screen, swiping right to answer the call.

"Hey girrrl! Looking forward to our Thrones marathon tonight!"

"Shireen, this is not really a good time."

"Why are you whispering? Are you still at work? Is your boss still blowing smoke up your-"

"Ask me later," hissed Bill. "I'm kind of in the middle of something right now." She looked inside the window again. Neither Ozzy nor the woman seemed to have heard her phone go off. Thank god. The woman was now leading Ozzy down a corridor. They disappeared from Bill's view.

"Woah, what's with the tone, girl? I was only calling to see whether you'd prefer Pringles or Doritos for our snack. I can get some of that new raspberry cider too."

'Yeah, listen. I don't think I'll be able to make it tonight. Sorry."

"What? But we were gonna watch Season Five, remember? Don't you want to see 'that scene' in the first episode with Dany and Daario? One for each of us to drool over!"

"I'm really sorry. This… thing's just come up." Faint sounds of barking came from inside the building. Rain dripped down the back of Bill's neck, and she sneezed.

"What thing? Why are you being so mysterious?" Shireen's voice lowered. "This doesn't have anything to do with your Doctor, does it?"

"No, I told you-"

She heard Shireen gasp. "He's back, isn't he?"

"Look, I'll call you later, ok? We'll reschedule for another time, yeah?" Bill swiped left, then turned her phone to silent mode. Then she sighed.

If only the Doctor _had_ come back. Investigating weird events wasn't much fun herself. At least the rain had stopped. She was damp to her bones, though. Minutes ticked by. Bill was considering going home – perhaps it wasn't too late to call Shireen back and say-

Voices. The door opened. Bill flattened herself against the building, heart hammering.

"… take good care of him," Ozzy was saying.

"So kind of you to choose him," replied the woman. "Most people just want the puppies. Lovely when they're young and cute, but once they grow up, the novelty wears off."

Bill blinked. Ozzy walked to the gate, holding a dog leash. Attached to the other end was the oldest dog Bill had ever seen. It was a Pomeranian; grey around the muzzle, and eyes clouded over by cataracts. As Bill watched, it quivered on its hind legs. Ozzy opened the gate and scooped the animal up, carrying it down the street.

Ok. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Ozzy simply felt inspired by Jason's love for Forty-Nine, and wanted a pet of her own? Bit weird that she chose one so… ancient, but perhaps she felt sorry for it?

After a couple of moments, Bill snuck to the gate and onto the street. Dusk fell as she followed Ozzy and the dog back to the diner. She hung back in the doorway of the now-closed newsagents and watched, as across the road, Ozzy flipped on the lights, and set the little dog down. Ozzy then strode down the back room, with her new pet wobbling after her.

Now what?

Less than two minutes later, Ozzy stepped out again. She carried… Bill squinted in the darkness… a rather bizarre assortment of objects. Cat carrier in one hand. Or rather, a canine carrier, since it now contained the dog. Butterfly net tucked under her arm. Something that looked like a remote control sticking out of her cardigan pocket. And in her other hand was an enormous semi-automatic! Bill's eyes bugged out. Oh. Wait. Ozzy passed underneath a street lamp, and Bill saw that it was actually a water pistol. Fully loaded.

Either Ozzy had a very strange idea of what to bring to a water fight, or something weird was about to happen.

This time, Ozzy didn't go far. Only around the back, to the alley that ran behind their diner. Ozzy stopped. Bill ducked down amid a group of rubbish bins, trying not to breathe through her nose.

Ozzy opened the cat carrier, and clipped the leash onto the dog. Then to Bill's shock, she moved back several paces towards the bins, only a couple of metres from where Bill was crouching. Ozzy was facing the other way, but any moment she could turn around…

"I know you're close by."

Bill jumped. Then realised Ozzy appeared to be talking to someone else.

"So, come on. What are you waiting for?"

Something flickered in the darkness, down the other end of the alley. The dog strained at its leash, whining. Ozzy clapped a hand to her chest; the odd device in her pocket was vibrating.

A dark shape took form, growing closer, levitating. Were those _wings_?

The dog let forth a series of short, sharp yaps. Ozzy grasped the butterfly net in one hand, and raised the water pistol with the other. Then Bill stifled a gasp. Little puffs of flame were coming from the… the thing, whatever it was. Like it was snorting fire.

Ozzy took aim.

 _"Spaceboy! You're sleepy now!"_

Oh god! She thought she'd turned her phone to silent!

Several things then happened almost simultaneously.

Bill stood up. Ozzy spun around, and squeezed the trigger. A blast of icy water shot up Bill's nostril. She sneezed violently, losing her balance, tumbling back against the bins, knocking them over and scattering rubbish everywhere. Dazedly, she watched the creature rise, flapping hard, before disappearing into the night. She was vaguely aware of Ozzy shouting. At her, or the creature, she wasn't sure.

 _"Moon dust will cover you, cover you, cover you…"_

Unfortunately, the only things covering Bill were chicken bones, greasy wrappers, and potato peelings. She fished her phone – still ringing – from her pocket. Moira. She thumbed left, to reject the call.

Ozzy stood over her. "Bill! What the hell are you doing here?"

Her. Ozzy was definitely shouting at her.

"Are you completely stupid? Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"Um," said Bill. What could she say? But Ozzy hadn't finished.

"How long have you been here?"

The little Pomeranian emerged from behind Ozzy's legs. After contemplating Bill for a second, it wobbled over and gave Bill an enormous lick, right across the cheek.

Bill struggled to her feet. "Just a few minutes."

Ozzy narrowed her eyes. "What did you see?"

"I saw that thing. What was it?"

Ozzy paused. "A bat."

"Seriously? But what about the…?" Bill pointed at her nose and attempted to mime the fire breathing.

Another pause. "Must have been a trick of the light. Or fireflies."

"Fireflies!" exclaimed Bill. "You've got to be joking. You know what that bloody looked like? That looked like an-" She was about to say "alien", but Ozzy cut her off.

"Enough! You've ruined everything tonight. I don't know what the hell you're playing at, but I want you to keep your nose out of my business. I have… stuff going on that I need to do, and which doesn't concern you."

"Maybe I could help?" suggested Bill hopefully.

"You can't," Ozzy replied bluntly. "Now, go home, Bill. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Right," muttered Bill. She turned to go.

"By the way," said Ozzy. "That's the stupidest ringtone I've ever heard." She scooped the dog into the carrier, picked it up, along with the butterfly net and water pistol, and strode off, back to the diner.

Bill trudged down the laneway, disconsolately.

 _"Spaceboy! You're sleepy now!"_

Oh for Pete's sake. It was Moira again. This time Bill answered.

"Hello Bill. You're slow to pick up, aren't you? Listen, I'm at the local, having drinks with Barry. Can you put the bins out?"


	5. Chapter 5

"Ozzy? Kitchen's clean. I'm going to head off now, if that's ok."

A pause from behind the closed back door, then: "Yep."

Bill sighed. For the past few days, following the incident in the laneway, the atmosphere had been frostier than the inside of the diner's freezer. She wiped her hands with the tea towel, using her foot to gently nudge away Missy, who had been worrying her shoelaces. Really, she had no idea why Ozzy had chosen to call the dog 'Missy' (of all names!). Bill had no desire to be constantly reminded of the loony, sociopathic Time Lady, whose previous incarnation had gotten Bill turned into a walking tin can. Although after a while, she'd come to be faintly amused at the notion of a tottering, ancient pet named after Missy. No doubt Ozzy had simply chosen it because it was a cute name for a fluffy little dog.

Bill strolled through the streets, enjoying the warm evening. Once home, she would take a shower. See what was on the telly. Maybe call Shireen and see if she wanted to grab a drink. Wait! Her phone! Bill patted her pockets. Damn. She'd been distracted by Missy, and left it behind on the counter at the diner.

She headed back to the diner. The lights were off; the place was in darkness. Perhaps Ozzy was out? However, when she tried the door, it opened. She snapped on the lights. There was her phone on the counter… and down the other end sat Ozzy. Slumped in a stool. Crying.

"Ozzy? Oh my god. What's wrong?"

As Bill's eyes took in the scene, she realized that Ozzy was covered with soot. Wrapped tightly around her fist was Missy's empty leash.

Ozzy looked up, hastily brushing her eyes. "What are you doing here?"

"Left my phone," said Bill quickly. She didn't want Ozzy yelling at her again. "What's happened? Where's Missy?"

A tear trickled down Ozzy's cheek, leaving a clean track in the grime. "She's gone. And it's all my fault."

"Gone? You mean…?"

Ozzy nodded tersely, then buried her head in her hands, body shuddering.

Bill froze, horrified and hesitant, not knowing what to do. Should she comfort Ozzy? Give her a hug? She settled for patting Ozzy awkwardly on the shoulder.

"Well, she was old," she said, trying to cheer Ozzy up. "On her last legs. It was going to happen sooner rather than later."

Ozzy looked up, sniffling. "Oh, you don't get it, Bill. Missy was my responsibility, but I put her in danger. I didn't look after her properly." She added softly, "I had a duty of care."

Bill then noticed on the counter the water pistol, half melted. What the hell had happened? She'd assumed Missy had carked it due to old age. Perhaps not.

"And now Missy's dead, and I'm bloody torn up about it," Ozzy continued, before adding rather oddly: "Wow. Never thought I'd be saying those words."

"If you'd just tell me what's going on," said Bill. "Maybe I could help."

Ozzy wiped her eyes. She looked at Bill squarely, for the first time in days.

"I know I've been hard on you."

Bill blinked. This was unexpected.

"You're a good worker, Bill. Great at making chips."

"Er, thanks," said Bill, after a pause.

"And you're a good person too. Smart. Persistent. Optimistic."

Ozzy praising her? Now this was getting scary.

"I've been a bit distracted lately," Ozzy continued. "Personal stuff. Nothing to do with you. But that's no excuse for being short."

"Come and have a drink with me!" The words were out of Bill's mouth before she realised she'd spoken them.

"What?"

"A drink. You and me. What do you say? We've never hung out before, besides work."

A smile crept over Ozzy's face. "Yeah. You know what? That'd be nice."

"Great!" said Bill, suddenly feeling stupidly pleased. "The Liftoff Bar near the uni. Three blocks down. How does that sound?"

Ozzy's smile broadened. She looked down at her soot-stained clothes. "Yeah, great. I'll need to get changed though."

A mental image of Ozzy undressing flashed through Bill's head. "Yeah, I'll need to go home and take a cold shower." Ozzy raised an eyebrow. "Um… I mean a shower." Bill felt herself blushing. "Meet you there in an hour, yeah?"

Fifty-nine minutes later, Bill was waiting anxiously at the bar. The Liftoff was a retro joint that prided itself on playing punk and new wave songs from the Seventies and Eighties. The Clash. Joy Division. Iggy Pop. It was here that she'd met Heather. Less than a year ago (in Earth time), but it felt like a lifetime.

Perhaps she should have chosen a different place. Too many memories. Too many students. What if Ozzy thought it was naff? What if Ozzy didn't even show?

But the door opened, and there was Ozzy – just as 'Head over Heels' by Tears for Fears began to play. Bill's heart lurched. Ozzy looked bloody amazing. She wore this dark red dress that accentuated the curve of her hips, and a leather jacket that looked both trendy and expensive. Bill instantly felt underdressed. She'd just chucked on her jeans (casually ripped at the knee), a comfy old t-shirt, and a bomber jacket. Ozzy hadn't noticed her yet, and for an instant, she felt like fleeing. Then she heard the Doctor's voice in her head.

 _Come on, Bill Potts, where's that spirit? She's only human, like you!_

Yeah. Thanks, Doctor.

Bill drew a deep breath, and made her way over to Ozzy.

"Oh, hi," said Ozzy. There were no traces of her earlier tears, and her face was artfully made-up. "I like your jacket."

"Thanks," said Bill. "Um, yours too."

"Well," said Ozzy, after a pause, "Shall we get a drink?"

They made their way over to the bar. "Lager, please," Bill told the barman, and turned to Ozzy. "What'll you have? My shout."

"Thanks," said Ozzy. "Red wine would be nice. Cab Sav if they have any."

Of course. Trust Ozzy to drink something fancy. Bill immediately regretted ordering a lager. How unsophisticated Ozzy must find her!

They took their drinks and found a little table in the corner.

"Cheers," said Bill.

"What are we drinking to?"

Bill shrugged. "Missy? The dog."

"To Missy." They chinked glasses.

There was an awkward silence while they sipped at their drinks. Think of something to say, Bill thought. Anything. Quick!

"So I met my ex-girlfriend in this bar, right over there," blurted Bill. Oh brilliant. Now she was banging on about her former dates. Great way to bore Ozzy stiff.

But Ozzy didn't seem to mind. "Ex, hey? What happened?"

 _She was possessed by a sentient puddle, tracked me across the universe, converted me back from a cyberman to a human, promised to show me around all time and space, then ditched me for another alien._

"She ditched me."

Ozzy shrugged. "Her loss."

"What about you?" asked Bill, feeling bold. "You mentioned someone called Jane. What was she like?"

Ozzy's eyes sparkled. "Amazing. Loved playing pranks. But I always got her back."

Ten minutes later, both Bill and Ozzy were crying with laughter into their drinks. "... put the salt in the sugar bowl," Ozzy was saying. "I put three teaspoons in my tea, and it tasted revolting! I had to swallow and pretend it was lovely. Right in front of Jane's neighbours and great-aunt and the Reverend. After that little joke, I got revenge by hiding her favourite bonnet."

Bill stopped laughing. "Bonnet?"

"She had old-fashioned tastes," explained Ozzy, quickly.

"So what happened with you and Jane?" asked Bill. Despite the fact that Ozzy referred to Jane in the past tense, Bill couldn't help but feel slightly jealous.

"Guess you could say we had a long distance relationship," said Ozzy. "Not really sustainable in the end. Besides, Jane was destined for other things. She had… literary ambitions."

"Has there been anyone else since?"

"There was Ashildr. We travelled together for a bit."

Bill frowned, trying to place the name. "Is that Pakistani?"

"Old Norse."

Weird. "Okay."

"But Ashildr was really just a companion. We weren't together. Anyway, she did a lot of work with, um, refugees. And in the end, she decided to go back to it. She moved to London to help set up a new camp."

"So it's just you then. On your own."

"Yep," said Ozzy softly. "Been on my own for a while now."

"But you must have friends. Family. You mentioned your dad…" It seemed inconceivable to Bill that someone as attractive and dynamic as Ozzy should ever be alone.

Ozzy shrugged. "I keep a pretty low profile these days."

Bill suddenly felt unaccountably sorry for her. "Listen, Ozzy…"

Ozzy took a slug of her wine and sighed. "You know that's just a nickname, right?"

"What is your real name?" Bill asked. She held her breath, hoping Ozzy would tell her.

The other woman hesitated. "Clara," she finally said. "My name is Clara Oswald."

"Clara? But that's a beautiful name!" exclaimed Bill. "Why don't you like using it?"

Ozzy – or rather Clara – took another gulp of wine. "You're pushing it tonight, Bill." She did not, however, seem annoyed.

"Fine. You don't have to answer that."

But whether it was from the wine, or Missy's death, Ozzy's mood had softened. "As I said, I prefer to keep a low profile. But also – I had this friend, right?" She shook her head. "No. 'Friend' doesn't cut it. He was so much more than that. He was the most important person in my life. I wanted to stay with him forever."

Bill was confused. "But I thought… you were like me. You know. Fancied girls."

Ozzy smiled sadly. "Yeah, I loved him. But there are different types of love. You know when you meet that person? And everything seems new and exciting and magical and funny and dangerous, all at the same time. That's how it felt with him."

"Yeah, I reckon I know what you mean," said Bill, thinking of the Doctor. She wondered who Ozzy's 'friend' had been. Whoever it was, she bet he couldn't hold a candle to the Doctor, despite whatever Ozzy said.

Ozzy continued. "So this man. He liked to use my name a lot. 'Clara, Clara, Clara' he'd say. I suppose hearing my name – my real name – reminds me of him." She toyed with the stem of her glass. "And it hurts."

"So what happened to him?" asked Bill.

In the background, a new song started. 'Don't You Forget About Me', by the Simple Minds.

Ozzy's eyes were very deep, and chocolate brown. "I had to leave him behind."

"Yeah," breathed Bill. "I totally get that."

They were silent for a moment, gazing into each other's eyes. Then Ozzy abruptly stood up.

"Looks like we've finished our drinks. Want another one? My turn this time."

"Yeah, thanks," said Bill. She was discovering so many things about Ozzy. Part of her never wanted the evening to end. She watched Ozzy stroll to the bar, and give an order to the barman. Then Bill frowned. Ozzy had pulled from her jacket that strange device which looked like a remote control. She examined it for a second, then put it back in her pocket.

Hmm. It seemed there was still a lot more to find out about Ozzy.

Ozzy returned to the table, this time holding two lagers. "There we go. I thought I'd attempt a beer this time."

"Bold move," said Bill. God, she sounded pretty flirty! But right now, but she didn't care. She took a swig.

"I've been known to make a few in my time," said Ozzy, raising an eyebrow. "So – what are we drinking to this time?"

Bill shrugged. "Friendship?"

"Fun?" suggested Ozzy.

"The diner."

"Chips."

They both laughed.

"Glad you dragged me out for a drink," said Ozzy, smiling gently at Bill. "I'm having a really good time."

Bill leant forward and mashed her lips against Ozzy's.

She felt the moisture of Ozzy's lips against her own dry ones, tasted her strawberry lip gloss, felt Ozzy's mouth open under hers (with shock, or desire, Bill wasn't sure), and her heart was hammering and the room spun around them and then...

And then Ozzy pulled away, scrambling to her feet, chair clattering.

"Sorry. I'm sorry," said Bill. God, what had she done?

"I have to go," said Ozzy. She backed away from the table, hands in her jacket pockets. "I have to go," she repeated. She turned, and rushed out of the bar.

Bill stared at the door. After a moment, she picked up her lager and downed it in one go. Then, for good measure, she picked up Ozzy's drink and guzzled that too. Finally, she slumped back in her seat, feeling properly sloshed, feeling the sting of mingled stupidity and rejection.

A new song started to play. A familiar beat that she'd recognised from her mum's old records. 'Don't You Want Me, Baby?' by the Human League. Brilliant. How fitting.


	6. Chapter 6

Bill woke to the glare of late morning sunlight. Urgh. Her mouth felt parched and her head thumped. Memories of the previous night washed over her. Kissing Ozzy. Ozzy running from the bar. Drinking all that lager. Stumbling home in the early hours and spewing in the downstairs toilet.

She pulled the duvet over her head, cringing. How bloody stupid she'd been! Imagining that Ozzy actually might welcome her advances. She'd totally misread the signals, there. Thank God she didn't have to go into work today. No way could she face Ozzy. Anyway, she wouldn't blame Ozzy for firing her over this. Snogging your boss was completely inappropriate. Bloody hell, it might even be seen as harassment!

Bill sighed. No chance of getting back to sleep now. Might as well get up. She rolled out of bed, limbs stiff. Her radio clock read: 11.46am. She stood underneath the shower until the water nearly ran cold, chucked on last night's jeans and a clean jumper. Fried up some egg and toast, dissolved an aspirin into a glass of flat Coke, and scoffed the lot in front of the telly.

Moira was at work. Time hung heavy in the small flat. Nothing on the television – just a bunch of stupid game shows, sit-com repeats, and nature documentaries. Bill clicked it off. Maybe she ought to think about looking for another job? There had to be something out there. Anything that didn't involve chips suddenly seemed very appealing – heck, even it meant working in a shop, or pruning hedges or cleaning toilets. She got her laptop out and fired it up.

She was about to start searching, when another memory floated up. Ozzy saying "My name is Clara Oswald."

Bill hesitated, then typed 'Clara Oswald' into the Google search bar. She took a breath, and hit 'enter'.

Within seconds, the results flashed up on her screen. Bill looked at the first one and frowned.

"No way! That can't be right."

It was an article from a local paper in east London. _School Mourns Popular Teacher: second tragedy in two years_.

Bill clicked on the link.

Clara Oswald had been an English teacher at Coal Hill School. Much beloved by her students and respected by her colleagues. She had died suddenly, on an unspecified London street, from an 'undiagnosed medical condition'. The article also mentioned that the school had lost another teacher a couple of years previously, in tragic circumstances. Mr R. Daniel Pink, who had also been Miss Oswald's boyfriend.

Boyfriend. Oh. Somehow, Bill had never thought about Ozzy dating a man before. There was a photo that accompanied the article. Ozzy and this Mr Pink – a bearded, kindly-looking man – with a group of adolescents, taken on some camping trip. Everyone looked very happy. Ozzy was beaming with life.

Bill checked the date of the article. Three years ago. She frowned again. The woman in the picture was clearly Ozzy. What was going on? Had Ozzy faked her own death? If so, why?

"And what sort of a name is 'Pink', anyway?" said Bill, aloud.

The other search results comprised various notices from Coal Hill School; old public missives mentioning Ozzy's name, among others. Parent-Teacher night. School fete. Athletics carnival.

Down the bottom of the page was an older article from the same local paper. _Local Teacher Dies After Fatal Accident._ It appeared that Mr Pink had been hit by a car. Believed to have been talking on the phone at the time. Driver not at fault. No family, but survived by his girlfriend, Clara Oswald.

Poor Ozzy. How horrible. What had it been like for her, receiving that news? Then a thought struck Bill: had Mr Pink been talking to Ozzy on the phone when he was killed? That'd give anyone a complex. No wonder Ozzy was a bit crackers, sometimes.

She clicked on the next few pages of search results, ignoring the links irrelevant to Ozzy (which were most of them). Then, buried six pages in, was a link from a site that featured articles on historic mansions in Britain. This article was about some old, gothic looking pad called Caliburn House. But what did it have to do with Ozzy? Bill scrolled down the page – and came across a range of photos. One of them immediately caught her eye.

Four people – two men, and two women, one of whom was Ozzy. The caption below read: _Professor Alec Palmer (owner of Caliburn House from 1968 to 2003), his future wife Emma Grayling, and friends John Smith and Clara Oswald._

But that couldn't be right! The photo – black and white – was taken in 1974. Ozzy looked almost exactly as she did in the present day. If she was in her twenties then, she'd practically be eligible for the pension today – which clearly wasn't the case!

Bill looked at this John Smith, grinning next to Ozzy. Silly looking bloke with a big chin and a stupid looking bow tie. She wondered who he had been?

"What other photos have you been in, Ozzy?" murmured Bill.

She clicked the 'back' arrow, which took her back to the Google results, then hit the 'Images' button. Instantly, the screen filled with photos. There was the one of Ozzy and Mr Pink. There was the one of Ozzy and Mr Smith. And many more, both in colour and black and white. One of Ozzy and Mr Smith again, this time accompanied by other two men dressed in naval uniforms, standing in front of a submarine. The date read '1983', but again, Ozzy looked no different, saved for the tied-back hair.

And here was Ozzy again, all ruffled skirts and lacey boots and bouffant hairdo. Sepia picture. Taken outside a rather Dickensian looking inn. Bill checked the date. 1892.

For God's sake. This was getting ridiculous.

Bill shoved the laptop aside, and plopped back down on the couch, gnawing her lip. This was seriously weird. Just who was Clara Oswald?

She was still pondering the mystery, half drowsing, when there came a knock on the door. Bill leapt to her feet. Dusk had fallen outside. Probably Moira, forgotten her keys. Or Shireen, seeing if she wanted to go for a drink (Bill decided she'd pass that one up). But when she opened the door, there stood Ozzy.

Bill's mind raced. Had Ozzy come over in person to tell her off for last night? She looked serious, but not upset. But one never knew with Ozzy.

"Hi," Bill said rather breathlessly. Then, quickly – "Listen, about last night. I was really out of line. Really, really, out of line. I'm so sorry. Dunno what I was thinking. Went a bit mad, with the lager, I guess." She laughed nervously. "Really shouldn't drink, because it goes straight to-"

"Bill," said Ozzy, "Shut up. Shut up, shut up, just shut up."

Bill shut up.

"Listen," said Ozzy. "Can I come in?"

"Um, sure." Bill led her to the kitchen table, where they sat down. "Fancy a cuppa?"

"No thanks," said Ozzy. "This shouldn't take long."

"Okay," said Bill. "Should be right. So long as we don't get interrupted by anyone. Say, the Pope. Or the Secretary-General of the United Nations." She gave another nervous chuckle.

Ozzy looked at her curiously.

"Sorry," said Bill. "I'm listening."

"I need your help," said Ozzy.

Bill leaned forward eagerly. "Is this to do with those missing dogs?"

"Yeah," admitted Ozzy. "Look, Bill. I'm about to say something you're gonna think is totally weird, and you probably won't believe me. But here goes." She took a deep breath. "These dogs are being taken by an alien."

"Okay."

Ozzy blinked. "What do you mean, 'okay'?"

"I mean, okay. That actually makes a lot of sense. I mean, I saw that thing with the wings." She mimed the flapping.

"But – that doesn't freak you out?"

"Nah. I've known for a while that aliens exist. Really curious to know how _you_ know they exist."

There was a long pause.

"Right," said Ozzy. "Something to discuss later, maybe. Right now, I need your help in capturing this alien. Before it gets any more dogs."

A growing excitement rose in Bill's heart. She hadn't felt like this since Heather had dumped her back on Earth.

"I am so up for this!"

Ozzy smiled, despite herself. "Thanks. We just have to go back to the diner and get a few things." Then abruptly, her expression changed. "What's that?"

Bill realised, to her slight horror and embarrassment, that Ozzy was pointing at her laptop, which still displayed the images from the 'Clara Oswald' search. There was a thick, charged, silence.

"Were you looking me up?"

Bill felt her cheeks grow hot. "No! Well – maybe. I mean, I was just curious to know…" her voice trailed away.

"They're just photos of someone who looks like me," said Ozzy. But her voice was unconvincing.

A thought struck Bill. "Oh my God! I know what you are."

"Um, do you?" asked Ozzy, looking slightly alarmed.

"It all makes sense," whispered Bill. "You've lived for over one hundred years, and you don't age. You can't die, and you have no pulse."

"Bill, listen…"

"Oh my God, you're a vampire!"

Ozzy looked taken aback. "Definitely not a vampire."

"But it all makes sense! Are you going to suck my blood? Or – or, turn me into one?"

"Bill," said Ozzy firmly. "I'm not a vampire, okay? I will explain later. But right now, we need to go."

Bill hesitated. "Fine," she said, warily. At the door, she turned, and looked at Ozzy. "But what about the…" her voice dropped, "kiss?"

Ozzy threw her an inscrutable look. "We'll talk about that later, too."

Parked outside the flat was a scooter, which Ozzy headed for.

"Is that yours?"

Ozzy took a helmet, and tossed her a second. "Wear that, and hold on tight."

Bill donned the helmet, and climbed on behind Ozzy. Ozzy kicked the bike into life, and they sped through the streets, towards the diner. Bill clutched Ozzy's waist, feeling the excitement mount. An adventure awaited. Off to tangle with an alien! It was almost – but not quite – like being with the Doctor.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: Thanks for all the amazing support and feedback, kind readers! This will be the last proper chapter, but there is an epilogue to come.**

The scooter sped towards the diner; Bill riding pillion, holding fast to Ozzy. Ozzy raised a hand (did she just click her fingers, Bill wondered) and the diner door opened immediately. Bill couldn't stop herself from shrieking as the scooter zoomed straight in, and came to a screeching halt right in front of the door which led to the mysterious back room.

Bill climbed off the bike, legs stiff from the ride and trepidation. When she removed her helmet, she heard noises: roaring, flapping, coming from the alleyway behind the diner.

"Is that the-?"

Ozzy shook her hair out. "No time to explain. Follow me. She paused, grasping the door handle. "Actually. Might want to brace yourself. This is gonna be a bit of a shock. You probably think this is just a little room at the back, right? Well in fact…" She pulled open the door and motioned for Bill to go through.

Bill gasped. The room was stark, and white, and… She turned to Ozzy, eyes sparkling.

"It's bigger on the inside."

"Well, yes. It is. But why do you not sound more amazed?"

Bill scarcely heard her. She was taking it in: the hexagonal console, the time rotor (currently unmoving), the roundels on the walls. "Oh," she breathed, a feeling of rapture rising within her. "It's a Tardis!"

Now it was Ozzy's turn to gasp. "How do you know what a Tardis is?"

"How do you even have a Tardis?" countered Bill. "Hang on, are you a Time Lady?"

"How do you know what a Time Lady is?"

"Or a Time Lady that used to be a Time Lord? Did you… oh, what's the word? Rejig? Reset? Oh, I know - regenerate!"

"How do you know what regeneration is?"

"How did you even get this Tardis?"

"Are you going to keep answering every question of mine with a question of your own?" snapped Ozzy.

"Are you going to tell me properly what's going on?" said Bill.

"That was another question!"

The two women faced off, eyes narrowed. There was a pause. Then, simultaneously, both women asked:

"Have you met the Doctor?"

They both inhaled sharply, as they realised the significance of that question. Bill's mind whirled. So, Ozzy had met the Doctor! Had she travelled with him? For how long? Why wasn't she with him anymore? Did she know where he was now? Looking into Ozzy's eyes, she saw her own confusion and wonder reflected back.

There was a heavy thump against the back wall, shaking the diner. The roaring intensified. The funny remote control-type device, Bill noticed, was in Ozzy's jacket pocket and vibrating like crazy.

"Right," said Ozzy. "Conversation postponed. We've got to hurry."

She thrust a coil of hose into Bill's arms, and grabbed the butterfly net and cat carrier. She sprinted back out to the diner, Bill on her heels.

"Screw that end into the tap," ordered Ozzy, pointing at the kitchen sink. "Is that nozzle off? Good." She turned on the tap. "Let's go." She led the way out of the diner, to the alley. Bill followed, unrolling the hose as she went.

Unlike the previous time, it was a clear night. The alley smelt of rubbish and smoke. Bill looked up to see the alien – a large, bat-like creature – soaring above, silhouetted against the full moon.

"It'll swoop any second," warned Ozzy. "And when it does, twist that nozzle and give it a blast. Don't stop until I say."

"Okay," replied Bill, feeling her heart pound. Ozzy opened the car carrier, and held her butterfly net at the ready. The creature must have sensed them, smelt them, because it hung motionless in the air for an instant, then with a screech, dived straight for them.

"Get ready!" shouted Ozzy.

Bill gripped the hose, which felt as full and heavy as a snake. The alien sped closer, closer, closer. Bill could see its teeth; jagged and gleaming. A spurt of flame erupted from its nostrils – she felt the heat on her face, felt her eyebrows singe. Bill twisted the nozzle, and the pent-up water sprayed from the hose, catching the alien square in the face, and drenching the fire.

"Keep going!" yelled Ozzy. The pressure from the water was gradually wearing the creature down. It flapped its wings feebly, then seemingly exhausted, gave up and plummeted towards the ground.

"Okay, turn it off!"

Bill twisted the nozzle, and Ozzy darted forward. She caught the creature with the butterfly net seconds before it hit the ground, and with an aplomb that would have made a lacrosse player proud, lobbed it into the open cat carrier.

She slammed the door shut and nodded at Bill. "Nice work."

Bill grinned back. "Team effort. What is that thing?"

Ozzy held the car carrier up. Confined and sodden, the alien looked almost cute. It was calm now; its pink eyes were half closed, and trails of steam wafted gently from its pig-like snout.

"A Chirophorta. From the planet Kreipp," replied Ozzy. "They have a taste for canine flesh."

"You mean – dogs."

Ozzy nodded. "When I heard about all the missing dogs, I suspected it might have been a Chirophorta. Probably got here through a rift – maybe the one in Cardiff. Found its way across the Severn River, and landed up here. Figured I should do something about it."

"So that was why you bought Missy."

"Yeah. For bait. But I never meant for her to get eaten. Guess this one couldn't help himself. Chirophorta love older dogs. Apparently, they taste better with age. Rather like champagne."

Bill shuddered.

Ozzy said nothing more as they walked back to the diner, Bill coiling up the hose as they went. Once back in the Tardis, and a damp blanket placed over the cat carrier ("That'll keep him settled and moist for now," said Ozzy), Bill rounded on her.

"Tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"Everything. Who you are. How you got this Tardis. How you know the Doctor."

Ozzy shrugged. "He and I go back a long time. We travelled everywhere together. Saw some _amazing_ places."

Bill moved to the other side of the console. Something inside her did not care for Ozzy's casual, possessive tone.

"Yeah, well. I travelled with him too. Had some crazy adventures."

"Yes, it's usually like that with the Doctor," said Ozzy (so patronizing! thought Bill). "Time and space travel isn't for everyone. Some people just can't handle it."

"Oh, I could handle it!" Bill knew she was getting defensive, but couldn't help herself. "I helped free a giant creature from below the Thames. Found the missing Ninth Legion. Saved the world from a bunch of bloody space monks!"

"Ever meet a Dalek?"

"Yeah!" said Bill, remembering those pepper-pot things from her first adventure with the Doctor.

"I met an Ice Warrior once. On a submarine in 1983."

"I met one too. On Mars in 1872."

"I met Jane Austen. And Robin Hood."

"He doesn't even exist!"

"I've seen a Mummy on the Orient Express."

"I've seen zombies on a space station!"

The two women circled around the console, always keeping equal distance from each other.

"I've met his past faces," said Ozzy. "Watched him regenerate."

"Oh. Did you boss him to death?"

"I was his 'Impossible Girl'."

"Yeah, I can believe that," said Bill.

"I threw myself into the Doctor's timestream."

"I was trapped on a spaceship for over a decade."

"I'm going to be killed by a raven."

That pulled Bill up short. "How does that even happen?"

"Very painfully, apparently."

"Oh," said Bill in a small voice. Then – "If it's any consolation, I was once converted into a Cyberman. Still hate the sound of buzz saws."

"Wow," said Ozzy, hushed. "Guess that makes us even."

After a moment's pause, they both burst out laughing.

"So," said Bill. "This Tardis…?"

"The Doctor and I stole it from Gallifrey. When we had to… stop travelling together, I reconfigured it to look like a diner. Only the stupid chameleon circuit broke. Common problem with these Type 40s."

"So why are you here? I mean, in Bristol. You mentioned something about being stuck here."

"Yep. Got clipped by a solar flare while travelling through the De Wickcliffe Belt which damaged the Borgar valve. Had to make an emergency landing somewhere." She paused. "I chose Earth, twenty-first century. Old habits, and all that." She fiddled with the silent console, disconsolately. "Can't go anywhere 'til I get a new one. God knows how – it's not like going to the supermarket and picking one off the shelves."

Bill frowned. "Can it be fixed?"

Ozzy shook her head. "Got burnt to a crisp."

"Okay. Well, maybe we could find another part, somehow. Or else, half the parts in the Doctor's Tardis were organic. We might maybe even be able to grow a new part!"

Ozzy quirked an eyebrow. "We? We? Almost makes it sound like you think we're a team."

Bill felt herself blushing. The memories of the previous night came flooding back. The kiss. Ozzy pulling away. She was being presumptuous. Just because Ozzy had needed her help tonight, didn't mean that Ozzy wanted her around permanently.

"Yeah. Sorry. Got carried away. I didn't mean-"

To her astonishment, Ozzy walked purposefully around the console and rested her hands lightly on Bill's hips.

"For what it's worth, I think we make a pretty good team."

"Yeah?" said Bill, trying not to sound too pleased. No need to stoke Ozzy's ego even further.

"We can't go anywhere at the moment. But I'm hoping you can stick around."

"Hmm," said Bill, pretending to think. "I'll need to check my schedule."

"Good. Because you're rostered on for tomorrow's lunchtime shift. Who else am I going to get to cook the chips?"

Bill opened her mouth to remonstrate, then – seeing the twinkle in Ozzy's eye – realised she was joking.

"Ozzy," began Bill, but Ozzy stopped her, with a finger to Bill's lips.

"You know what? Call me Clara."

"Clara," began Bill, trying the name for the first time. She still had so many questions to ask, so many stories she wanted to share. But as Clara was now kissing her, and pulling her closer, and her own arms were twining around Clara's neck, she supposed that talking could wait.


	8. Epilogue

"More chips, please Bill!"

"Coming right up," replied Bill, chopping the potatoes with vigour.

Clara sauntered up, close behind her. "Remember, they should be one centimetre thick." She was grinning.

"Oh, shut up," said Bill, but she smiled back. "Don't nag the girl with the knife in her hand."

Clara pretended to swat her on the backside with the dish-cloth, then went off to clear some tables.

Since the Adventure of the Dog-Devouring Alien (as Bill liked to think of it), many things had changed, but many things had not. Most days still saw her working in the diner; washing dishes, scrambling eggs, assembling milkshakes and – of course – cooking chips. Today was particularly busy. A glorious Saturday afternoon, and the diner was pumping. A new customer – a youngish looking woman with short, swept-back hair – took the last seat at the counter.

"Be with you in just a sec," Bill said, glancing at her. She wiped the sweat from her brow with her forearm, and dumped the latest basket of chips in the deep fryer. She grabbed the order pad and turned around.

"What can I get for you?"

Now that she was paying attention, Bill noticed two very weird things about this woman. The first was her outfit. Long grey coat. Black t-shirt with colourful stripes across the um… chest area. Yellow suspenders. Blue pants. Looking over the counter, Bill saw a flash of ankle, and the ensemble completed by brown boots that wouldn't have looked out of place on a tradesman. Overall, the outfit walked a fine line between audacious and ridiculous, with Bill deciding that it fell down on the side of audacious. Just.

The second weird thing was that the woman was beaming at Bill like a long-lost friend.

"Hello," she said. Her voice was soft, and somehow unfathomably ancient.

"Um, hi," replied Bill.

"Look at you!"

"Pardon?"

"Lemonade."

"Sorry?"

"May I order a lemonade? And chips. Hot chips. You make them really well."

"Oh," said Bill, scribbling down the order. "Have you been here before?" She couldn't recall seeing this woman in the diner, and she was pretty sure she would have remembered someone dressed like that.

"Once or twice. A long time ago."

Bill smiled politely and poured the lemonade.

"You used to work at the university. In the cafeteria." The woman stated this as fact.

"Yes, I did," said Bill, surprised. "Were you a student there?"

"A professor. Again, a long time ago. You don't recognize me, though."

Was that a hint of sadness in her voice? "Sorry," said Bill. "'Fraid not. So many people there, you know? Faces kind of blur into one." She pushed the glass of lemonade across the counter.

"Yes, I know." The woman's eyes were a luminous green. Bill sensed something profound and mysterious in their depths. All of a sudden she thought of the Doctor; his leathery face, grey curls, thin lipped smile. Why should she be thinking of him now?

"Chips won't be long," she said briskly. Must focus on the job. She refilled the coffee cup of the bloke two seats down, grabbed a couple of empty glasses, wiped down the counter. All the time, she was aware of the woman, watching her.

"Are you happy?" asked the woman, quietly.

Huh? "Um," said Bill. "Yeah." She smiled, as she realised she spoke the truth. She had Clara. Her job. A Tardis – even if for now, it wasn't going anywhere. "Yeah, I am actually. Really happy." She wanted to add "But why do you care?" but was saved by the beeping of the deep fryer. She retrieved the chips, shook the excess oil out, and flipped them into the bain-marie.

"Salt?"

"Why not?"

She had just set the plate of chips down in front of the woman, when Clara appeared with a stack of dirty dishes. "Mind giving these a wash for me?"

Bill blinked. Now the customer (Bill had mentally nicknamed her Suspenders Woman) was beaming at Clara like _she_ too was also a long-lost pal.

"Do you work for her?" Suspenders Woman asked Bill, pointing at Clara.

"No," said Clara, taking Bill's hand (a little self-consciously). "She works _with_ me. We're partners. In every sense of the word."

Bill squeezed Clara's hand. It still thrilled and warmed her, to have this reaffirmed.

"Ah," said Suspenders Woman, her eyes rather misty now. "I see. I am so happy for you. So happy, and proud of you both."

Clara tilted her head. "Okay, this is gonna sound weird, but have we met before? You seem familiar, but I don't recall…"

Suspenders Woman smiled. "Memory can be such a tenuous thing. Sometimes you forget, without meaning to. Even the important things. But sometimes, you start to remember. Bits and pieces anyway. Especially as you get older. Or if you change." She picked up a chip, and munched it. "As good as ever, Bill. For example, I can't remember what colour socks I put on this morning, but I can remember the faces of the people I knew when I was younger." She paused to eat another chip. "The people I loved when I was younger."

Bill sensed Clara's smile becoming a little forced. Suspenders Woman was being strange. Rambling on about memory and growing older, when she didn't look a day over thirty-five. "That's nice," said Clara politely. "Enjoy your food."

"Speaking of food," said Suspenders Woman, "I don't have any money to pay for it." She took a slurp of her lemonade.

Clara dropped Bill's hand, and folded her arms. "Okay. That could be just a bit of a problem." Despite her words, Bill thought she sounded more amused than annoyed.

Suspenders Woman wiped her mouth with a napkin. "However, this might help square the deal." From her coat pocket she pulled out a long, skinny piece of metal (at least, Bill assumed it was metal), flared at the end like a trumpet. Suspenders Woman pushed it across the counter towards Clara.

Clara gasped, and picked it up, reverently. "Oh my god. Bill, this is a Borger valve!"

"Really? Let me see!"

Clara turned back to Suspenders Woman. "How did you-"

But Suspenders Woman was gone, the seat spinning slightly.

Bill and Clara stared at each other.

"She knew what a Borger valve is," said Clara slowly.

"And she seemed to know us."

"You don't think-"

"No way!"

From outside the diner came a familiar wheezing noise. The sound of a Tardis dematerializing. Without hesitation, Bill and Clara raced outside… just in time to see the blue police box disappearing. The wheezing slowly faded, but Bill found herself jumping up and down, laughing and whooping. Next to her, Clara was doing exactly the same.

"It was him! It was really him!" cried Bill.

"Her," corrected Clara.

"God, yes. So he must have Rejigged-"

"Regenerated."

"- into a woman!"

"Did you see her hair? It was great."

"He always had great hair."

"Explains the boots. Can you imagine running away from Daleks wearing high heels?"

"I wonder if those were Sonic Earrings?"

"Wouldn't surprise me."

They looked at each other and laughed, but behind the laughter, Bill almost felt a little teary; a sense of loss and renewal.

"You know what this means, now we have a Borger valve?" asked Clara.

"We can get fix the Tardis. Go anywhere we like," said Bill.

"Oh yes!"

"So after we close tonight, we'll install it, yeah?"

But Clara wasn't waiting until closing time. She sprinted back inside the diner, Bill at her heels. The place was still packed; customers lined up at the counter, jukebox blaring. Clara yanked the cord, and the music abruptly stopped. In the sudden silence, Clara climbed up onto the counter, and clapped her hands for attention.

"Everybody out!" she ordered. "This diner is closed until further notice. I'm going to have to ask you all to leave."

There were gasps of astonishment, and murmurs of annoyance.

"Sorry," added Bill, grinning sheepishly at everyone.

"Is this for health reasons?" asked a podgy looking man. He prodded anxiously at his bacon and eggs.

"Yes!" said Clara, at the exact same second that Bill said "No!" They quickly glanced at each other. "There is nothing wrong with the food," Bill informed the crowd firmly. Yes, all of time and space awaited, but she wasn't going to have her cooking or hygiene habits criticized.

"But I haven't finished my milkshake!" complained a freckly teenage boy.

"You can take it with you," Clara told him. "Come on, don't dilly dally!"

"But we need to pay," protested an elderly lady.

"Everything is on the house," said Clara. Now there were general cheers from the crowd. Slowly, the bemused customers began to file out, many still carrying their drinks, or plates of half eaten food. When the last person had gone, Clara locked the door, and flipped the sign around to 'Closed'. The two women hurried into the main console room, and closed the door.

Clara yanked up a floor panel near the console, and jumped down into the gap. "I think I can insert this. Pass me that tool kit, Bill."

Bill watched Clara work. There was one thing nagging at her. "Why did the Doctor leave without saying goodbye? Why didn't she take us with her?"

"You know the Doctor," replied Clara. "Hates goodbyes. And anyway – she gave us this valve, didn't she? She knows we have a Tardis of our own. Knows we're not going to stay here."

"But-"

"She's probably got places to be. But it's a big universe, isn't it? Maybe we'll bump into her again out there."

Bill smiled, and stuck her hands in her pockets. "Yeah. I reckon we might."

"And now," said Clara, "I've just about got it…"

There was an audible click as the valve locked into place, and a split second later, the console hummed into life, its buttons and levers illuminated.

"You've done it!" exclaimed Bill, reaching down with her hand to pull Clara up.

Clara emerged, looking triumphant. She maneuvered the panel back into place, then turned to the console, setting coordinates.

"Where are we going?" asked Bill, feeling the first heady rush of excitement. She suspected, travelling with Clara, it would not be the last.

"First stop, Kreipp," said Clara. She nodded at the car carrier, which still contained the Chirophorta. "Need to get this one back home."

"And then?"

Clara smiled. "Anywhere we like." She pulled a lever. The time rotor roared into motion; the sweet, steady rising and falling was balm to Bill's eyes.

"Anywhere we like," Bill repeated. Her smile felt like it stretched from ear to ear, as the diner-Tardis dematerialized from the Bristol street. The universe was waiting for her and Clara, full of promise and adventure.


End file.
